


Beer and Loving in La Liga

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, the one where robbie also goes to spain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: It's very hard to pretend that your best friend is your mortal enemy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> Julija: what if Wobbie went on to be a Barca player at the same time Macca was at Real  
> Julija: Like there'd be a brawl and they'd be on the edge just gently teasing each other, it goes against everything right
> 
> hey loveeeeeee I saw you weren't feeling so good yesterday and wanted to write this 4 u as a little happy ficlet thing buT THEN IT GOT LONGER AND YESTERDAY IS NOW TODAY so that was a mess rip i suck at writing quickly BUT I HOPE THIS STILL CHEERS YOU UP and if you don't need any more cheering up then that's even better <333

At first Steve's actually a little disappointed that Robbie isn't more upset. He's just told him - best mate Robbie, light of his life Robbie, surprisingly good kisser Robbie - that he's leaving for Spain, and Robbie's just sort of shrugged his shoulders. 

"Did you hear what I just said?" Steve asks, scrunching up his face. "I'm going to Madrid, mate. We're not going to see each other again for months, like." A wave of horror washes through him. "I'm going to have to do my  _ own laundry _ ."

"Eh," Robbie says. Steve wonders how gnab (bang out of order) it'd be to punch him.

"Where are the tears? The screaming? The Maccapleasedon'tgos?"

Robbie tilts his head and turns his attention to the pizza menu instead. "Y'know, I'm not really that bothered," he says. This is horrifying. 

Steve pouts and has just decided that he's never going to speak to Robbie again when Robbie grins up at him. "Besides, it isn't that far away to Barcelona." 

It takes a while for Steve to process this information, but he gets there eventually, if 'getting there' means letting his jaw fall open so wide that a hundred Neil Ruddocks could fit inside no problem. 

"You're joking me." 

"Nope," Robbie chirps, waving the letter with the familiar blue-and-red logo at him. "I happen to be a very good footballer, you know." 

Steve sits back down at the table and does the weird pyramid-y thing with his fingers, staring at Robbie. "Does this mean we're mortal enemies now?" 

"I guess." Robbie chews thoughtfully on a strand of uncooked spaghetti. Steve's been telling him it's bad for his stomach for  _ ages  _ but he never listens. "We'll have to say terrible things about each other to the press." 

"Oh, that's easy. I've got loads." 

"That don't involve small body parts." 

"Huh. You just banned everything there is to say about you, really." 

There's a beat and then Robbie's face cracks into a wide grin, his ears tinged red at the tops, and Steve grins straight back across the table. McGrowler in Spain. Correction: McGrowler in warring factions of Spain. This is going to give Romeo and sodding Juliet a run for its money.

 

*

 

**FOWLER & MCMANAMAN LEAVE FOR SPAIN** **  
** **_Pair take the same flight to Madrid; Fowler had to take a train to Barcelona; says that McManaman booked the wrong ticket for him_ **

**FOOTBALL STARS EAT ALL THE CHOCOLATE ON THE PLANE** **  
** **_Air stewardess reports 'inappropriate giggling' from first class cabin_ **

 

*

 

Spain is hot as  _ fuck _ . Steve lowkey knows he's going to regret it the moment he steps off the plane, out of the airport, and into the sun, which seems extremely intent on burning a hole into the back of his head. His only consolation is that dark-haired Robbie's head must have been bursting into Ghost Rider flames by now.

Everyone's very nice about his being there, which he finds vaguely surprising, because he's heard that they don't tend to like English players and he's not so hot (in a manner of speaking; right now he's all for spontaneous combustion) for them himself. But they greet him with big shouts of 'Macca!' and ' Inglés'! and they're all smiling so he smiles too.

The great thing about football is that training is essentially the same everywhere you go, so he slips in like he's always been there, the ball at his feet where it belongs. They seem a little impressed, which is nice. But it's always 'they' and it's always 'him' and there's something about that that he can't wrap his head around. 

He thinks maybe it's just because he wants to call Robbie and talk about it.

This, however, is thrown immediately into jeopardy when he gets back to the rented apartment, picks up the phone, and realises he has no idea what Robbie's new number is. He knows Robbie has one of those Blackberry things and considers sending an email, but discards the idea even before he's thought it, because the day Robbie checks his email will be the day he beats Gary Lineker in a Who's Got the Biggest Ears? competition. 

In the end he has to call Barcelona. Which is kind of an embarrassing thing to do on your first day as a Real Madrid player.

"I've had the worst time," he whines the moment Robbie picks up. "Are they sure it's a switchboard and not some robot designed to be unhelpful slash play you lift music for twenty minutes?" 

"You called me through the club?" Robbie asks, finding this intensely amusing. 

"Well, yeah. How else was I supposed to get to you, you twat?" 

"I put my number in the note I wrote you on the plane." 

"Wait, really?" Steve rummages through his trouser pockets and flushes. "Oh, yeah, you did. I kinda got distracted by all the dicks." There are reasons why Robbie was never an artist.

"Did you tell the operator who you were?" 

"I had to. They wouldn't let me have it otherwise." 

Robbie laughs with a delight usually reserved for the Joker as he watches things crash and burn around him. "This'll be good."

"What?" 

"I've always wanted to experience the sensationalism of the Spanish media first-hand."

 

*

 

**ENGLISH STARS IN PHONE CALL SCANDAL** **  
** **_Accusations that Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman are 'consorting with the enemy'_ **

**_Switchboard operator reveals all_ **

 

*

 

"That was maybe not such a good idea," says Raul, shaking his head. 

"I know," Steve grumbles. They're sat in the locker room and the lads have been offering up secrets about Madrid for him to pass to his Catalan contact the entire session. "What else was I supposed to do?" 

"Tell him he's a  _ pintamonas _ ," someone suggests to a chorus of agreement. The cause is very quickly taken up by the rest of the room. 

" Callate el osico gordota !" 

" El burro sabe mas que tu!"

"Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono!"

Steve is both horrified and impressed when told what these translate to. He writes them down and duly relays them to Robbie that night, but in Spanish, so that he'll have to ask his teammates what they mean. 

Robbie is not amused when he calls back the next day. "I said it to Guardiola and he nearly punched me," he complains. Steve is delighted.

After that it becomes a habit; Steve writes down insults, sometimes aimed at particular players, and gives them to Robbie, who replies with insults from his own dressing room, over half of which - understandably - involve Guti and Raul in some sort of compromising scenario.

Guti finds this hilarious. Raul is not amused. 

"Our first strong, direct line of contact," he sighs, "and you are using it for yo mama jokes."

 

*

 

**GRUDGE MATCH** **  
** **_Scousers deepen rift between rivals_ **

 

*

 

It's very hard not to want Robbie to do well, no matter how much everyone tells him he has to. They are, after all, fighting for the title, and every goal Robbie scores is another goal to be caught up with. Steve's spent a lot of (drunk) nights racing Robbie down Anfield, just to prove that he's faster, and it always ends up with falling over and the damp grass cutting into their skin, but this is different. He's never  _ really  _ raced Robbie when only one of them can win.

So he tries, very hard, to get into the mindset that permeates all of these players - the red and blue ghost that looms in the background, never spoken of but always watching. He tries to be angry when Robbie scores a hat trick against Valencia and yanks them back into contention. He tries to laugh when Barcelona gets beaten down again and Madrid are sitting clear by three points on top of the table. If Robbie hadn't been there he might have even enjoyed it. 

But he is. That's the problem.

"I wish you hadn't come to Spain," he tells Robbie one night, when they're both kind of drunk and at home, because as much as Steve loves him he isn't going to spend four hours on a shitty train just to have a beer in person. "Everything's so much harder." 

"You'd actually be out with your teammates instead of calling me," Robbie nods sagely. "You might even have a life."

"Yeah, yeah." Steve rolls his eyes. "Might actually care about this place more."

And Madrid is  _ nice _ , and he likes playing for Real, and he's surrounded by such immense players and legends that every day feels like Christmas, but it's not  _ home _ , and Steve thinks maybe neither is Liverpool, maybe home can be something that isn't a place.

He thinks next that this is just the beer talking.

Robbie's laughing. "You're going to win the league," he points out, even though it's not halfway through yet. "That's something, innit?" 

"I guess." Steve drags a hand down his face. "Do they call you small ears over there?" 

"Figo thinks it's great. But I told them how small your dick was, so we're cool."

Steve shakes his head. "The good thing about calling you's that I can hang up any time. Back in Liverpool you'd just be banging on me door in five minutes and not shut up." 

"Like you don't love it." There's a level of self-satisfaction and smugness in Robbie's voice that Steve both hates and realises how much he misses.

"I hate Barcelona," he says instead, like he's reminding himself.

"I hate Madrid," Robbie intones, like a mantra.

"I love you," Steve says, holding the phone tight.

 

*

 

**EL SCOUSICO** **  
** **_English players square up against each other in Spanish classic for the first time_ **

 

*

 

He thinks a lot about this, the two teams, what it means. Whether if he'd been playing for Liverpool and Robbie had gone to Everton if it would have been the same, or if it would have meant something different entirely. Whether if Robbie had joined Granada or Celta Vigo or something it would've been the same. He supposes this - the Camp Nou looming above him wide and sprawling, crumbling and magisterial at the same time - this game is where they will find out.

"There are no mates on the pitch," Raul says philosophically to him as they're changing into their kit. Or maybe not so much philosophically as pointedly, a glimmer between interest and pity coming into his eye.

Steve almost forgets to breathe when he sees Robbie in the tunnel.

He'd forgotten about the awkwardness of waiting before going out. He'd psyched himself up for the pitch instead - in that great expanse things would have gone far more easily. He could have just run by Robbie without acknowledging him and played the game without playing the men. But in the tunnel everything is brought into sharp relief, confronting the elephant in the room.

Robbie grins at him awkwardly. "Not seen you in a while, mate," he jokes. 

Steve looks down at his shirt, pure white, as if nothing could sully it. The other players are all lined up in two rows and he studiously ignores the side looks and self-righteous judgement that's radiating from just about all of them. 

"You're looking well," he says. 

And as if their brains are in sync, as if they can read each other's minds, they reach forward and take the hit, Steve's arm wrapped tightly around Robbie's shoulder, Robbie's hand clutching the fabric at Steve's waist. It lasts only a second - any more would be decadence, they both know - but the cameras will have their moment anyway. 

Steve doesn't say good luck, because he isn't suicidal, but he does say 'fuck you', which is the most appropriate thing he can think of to say right now.

"Fuck  _ you _ ," Robbie replies, still smiling, and it's in that moment Steve gets his answer.

 

*

 

**FOWLED AGAIN** **  
** **_Real Madrid fails to extend their lead at the top of La Liga with 2-2 draw in Camp Nou; Robbie Fowler scores equaliser_ **

**TUNNEL TANTRUM** **  
** **_Van Gaal left fuming after Fowler hugs McManaman in tunnel_ **

**LOVE THY ENEMY** **  
** **_How far is too far?_ **

 

*

 

El Clasico, Steve learns, isn't so much a game as it is a massive customary scuffle with exaggerated finger gestures and bollocking the referee. This is more than fine with Steve, whose education in Liverpool means that he is well versed in shirt-pulling, sly elbowing, and a comprehensive vocabulary of colourful language. He gets well stuck in for the first thirty minutes or so, but then his interest starts to tail off as he realises how silly everything is. Especially when someone starts in on Robbie.

They end up throwing polite banter at each other while the rest of them push and shove and come very close to going to jail. It's a bit of an incongruous image, though Steve hopes the papers will put it down to Englishmen not being used to Spanish culture. If it helps, he feels like he really improved his banter game. One exchange he went entirely without mentioning Robbie's ears, which is a huge step up for him.

That night he takes a bus to Robbie's house, his hat pulled down as if it's an invisible cloak that will protect him from all recognition. (He's pretty sure that the old lady who was yelling at him as he got off was not inviting him for tea and cookies, but he'll give her the benefit of the doubt.) Robbie looks surprised to see him.

"Mate," he says, although he opens the door wider for Steve to come in. "What if someone catches you?" 

"Don' care," Steve says, shrugging his way past and flopping onto the sofa. Everything here reminds him of Robbie, from the half-finished cup of coffee on the side table to the neat row of (unused, he should point out) pots and pans in the kitchen. 

Robbie sits down next to him, their legs touching. Instinctively Steve puts an arm around his shoulder. It's the middle of winter and it's cold.

"Good game today," he says.

"Yeah." Robbie grins up at him. "Bit weird, though, playing against you." 

"Mm." 

Robbie switches the TV on. There's footage of their tunnel hug and he grins wider. "That was a shite idea, wasn't it?" 

"Just be glad there aren't cameras around for this one," Steve says, and leans over to kiss him.

 

Afterwards they're lying side by side and looking at the ceiling. "I don't like this rival shite," Robbie says, going back to his earlier thought. "I miss playing with you."

The urge to say 'you just did' is strong with Steve but he stifles it in favour of seriousness. "Me too," he agrees, feeling the weight of Robbie's head pressed lazily against his chest. "I wish I didn't feel guilty hoping you'd score."

"Did you?" Robbie is chuffed by this. "You absolute traitor."

They're quiet, and then Steve says, "January's coming up." 

"Yeah." 

"I heard City's interested."

Robbie shudders. "Ghastly." 

They're both doing more than all right in Spain, and Manchester is the capital of shit weather. Steve swallows and bites his lip.

"I'm thinking of taking it." 

"You'll be great."

"If I go, will you come?" 

"'Course." 

It's as easy as that. 

 

*

 

**TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT** **  
** **_Real Madrid's McManaman seen leaving Barcelona star's house in the morning_ **

**MES QUE UN CLUB?** **  
** **_Both managers reportedly not happy at continued fraternisation between close friends Fowler and McManaman_ **

**THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT** **  
** **_'El Macca' defends behaviour, says he wouldn't give up friendship with Fowler 'for all the clubs in the world'_ **

 

*

 

Steve signs for City the next day.

No prizes for guessing who goes with him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> qwik notes:  
> \- I know nothing about La Liga so I probably messed it all up woops  
> \- Mobile phones did exist before 1999 (I actually went and looked it up, dedication) but i found Macca having to call the club hilarious  
> \- Spanish translations (all from le internet ok):  
> \--- pintamonas: a nobody  
> \--- Callate el osico gordota: shut ur snout fatty  
> \--- El burro sabe mas que tu: the donkey knows more than you  
> \- The first clasico in the 1999/2000 season was a 2-2 draw  
> \- Obvs they wouldn't have stayed for liek 3 months but HUMOUR ME  
> \--- Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono: You're uglier than a monkey ass  
> \- ok but im really proud of El Scousico  
> \- im also really proud of the title (based off Sid Lowe's Fear and Loathing in La Liga, which is based off Hunter Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)
> 
> \- luff u <3


End file.
